


East Jesus Nowhere

by SilentSinger



Series: The Cricket Chronicles [2]
Category: It's Always Sunny in Philadelphia
Genre: Alcohol, Blasphemy, Explicit Language, Explicit Sexual Content, Loss of Faith, M/M, Threesome - M/M/M, sorry i've been trying to stop myself writing this for months, these are not nice people and this is not a nice fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-19
Updated: 2018-09-19
Packaged: 2019-07-14 12:37:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,644
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16040636
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SilentSinger/pseuds/SilentSinger
Summary: An alternate (or is it?) scenario for S04E01: Mac and Dennis: Manhunters.And we will see how godless a nation we have become.





	East Jesus Nowhere

**Author's Note:**

> I have no excuse for this.

They’d had their fun. As promised, sour, sweaty balls had violated his mouth, his chin, and for one photo, the top of his head. Nut Hat, Dennis had called it. They’d posed in various positions – with and without displays of a testicular nature: Cricket sprawled out on the floor with Mac’s foot pressing into his butt, like a big-game hunter proudly displaying the fresh carcass of a Bengal tiger; Dennis with a knife to Cricket’s throat (which it seemed like he was a little more comfortable with than he really ought to have been); and on one woefully misjudged occasion – a precarious balance of Cricket across both their laps as they set the timer and displayed him like a 100-pound tuna. The camera flashed at the exact point the three of them collapsed backwards, with Dennis yelling at Mac about his supreme lack of anything but glamour muscles.

If asked, Cricket will still maintain that the bastard Chinaman with his not-quite-sharp-enough blade and citric acid-coated grapefruit spoon had been the catalyst for his atheism. In truth, it all began here – the seeds of disbelief well and truly planted. In the days, weeks and years following the events that transpired next, Cricket had attempted as best he could to erase the whole sordid affair from his memory. But to this day, even after a visit to the angels, a whole sixer and couple of oxy to bring him back down to earth with a modicum of grace, the mere whiff of peppermint candy will bring it all crashing back with a vengeance. 

Mac and fucking Dennis.

****

Tequila slammers are never a good idea. Tequila slammers enjoyed by two men about to drown in a pool of their own testosterone are about as sensible an idea as an umbrella made of tissue paper. However, they’d pounded the table in manly agreement with regards to celebrating their catch of the day, and so the games began anew.

Carrying a reasonable buzz from the four or so shots Mac and Dennis had allowed him (for being such great prey), Cricket practically feels at ease. Sure, it’s been non-stop humiliation up to this point, but watching these guys make complete jackasses of themselves as they lick, slam and slurp their way into one cocksucker of a hangover is actually kind of rewarding. Besides, free booze is free booze, and Cricket – having said goodbye to his last shred of dignity quite some time ago – would happily drink fermented rat piss if it got him wasted enough to forget the gargantuan shitshow that is his current life.

Soon the table is littered with the remnants of an evening best left forgotten: Used and fresh lime wedges and spilled salt are almost lost amongst a small mountain of half-eaten candy and discarded wrappers; an ashtray filled with still-smouldering cigar butts (hunters, after all, must celebrate in style); two large shot glasses and Cricket’s bright-blue egg cup (because Charlie only keeps enough of that sort of shit for himself and Frank). After approximately eight shots, four cigars and a metric fuckload of sugary treats, Dennis makes a rather unexpected proposition.

They’d slowly been getting more amorous with one another over the course of the evening. Shared whispers, covert giggles and – from the wide-eyed look of shock on Mac’s face – definite under-table cupping. None of this serves to surprise Cricket; the pair of them have been practically joined at the hip since high school. In fact the only thing that’s remarkable about their present situation is that the manipulative cunts aren’t fucking married already. Christ, Cricket would officiate if he goddamn had to. Sentence these motherfuckers to a lifetime of nothing but one another’s wretched company; a fate worse than death.

“Cuervo always makes you horny, dude,” Dennis says with a chuckle, as Mac whispers into his ear for like the twentieth goddamn time tonight. “Not a bad plan though, but I have an even better idea.”

Cricket doesn’t even want to know. He stares glumly at his empty egg cup, and tentatively reaches for the tequila. Dennis slaps his hand away.

“My associate and dear brother in arms Mr. McDonald here has a suggestion,” he says, the dramatic intent of his tone somewhat negated not only by his level of inebriation but also the smattering of pubic hair still adorning his handsome features. “However,” he continues, his hand now gripping Cricket’s with such tenacity that he can feel it losing sensation, “Mac is merely the brawn of this operation. And I – being the brains, because I’m always the fucking brains – have an idea that is vastly,  _ vastly _ superior.”

****

Mac’s original proposal had been for Cricket to jerk both their horny asses off, simultaneously – with the promise of the remainder of the bottle of Jose Cuervo. Dennis had sweetened the deal by adding not one, but two whole cans from Charlie’s selection of huffables, and a bump from Frank’s own private stash of blow, which he keeps in the pickle jar. For Cricket, the idea of getting so goddamn cunted that he’ll forget any of today’s events even transpired is just too tempting an offer to pass up, and so without too much deliberation he finds himself stripped naked, on all fours on Charlie’s filthy-ass threadbare carpet, with Mac and Dennis prowling around him like feral dogs about to do battle.

Cricket shifts on his knees, half from discomfort, and half from boredom. He’s not nearly intoxicated enough for this, but it’s not like he hasn’t been in this situation before. Men of the streets of all shapes and sizes have frequented his every orifice on countless occasions since he left the priesthood; it serves as a means to an end for the most part, and he fucking fakes it half the time as it is. That said,  _ if the price is right, let’s party tonight. _

“I’ve always wanted to try double anal,” Dennis suggests finally, from someplace behind him. Cricket is grateful that the sociopathic prick doesn’t see him wince in response. That shit would only spur him on.

“I dunno, man,” Mac replies. “Our dicks rubbing together like that? Sounds pretty gay, dude.”

“Gayer than being inside a man’s ass in the first place? You know what, fuck it.” Dennis sighs with exasperation. “Take his mouth. You can close your eyes and pretend it’s a woman. Remember when you liked women, Mac?”

“I’ll close my eyes and pretend it’s your goddamn mom, asshole!” Mac roars. 

A scuffle from behind, a hard slap and the sound of tender skin being raked with sharp nails.

“Okay, but this is not a gay thing, dude,” Mac mumbles, the intonation of his voice not dissimilar to a child who’s been told he can’t have dessert until he finishes his broccoli. “This is asserting dominance.”

“Fine. Assert your dominance in his goddamn mouth already.”

****

_ Romans 10:13 – For whosoever shall call upon the name of the Lord shall be saved. _ Bullshit. Bull-fucking-shit. Before Mac fills his waiting mouth with his thick cock, Cricket – who is already being pounded from behind by an all-too-eager Dennis – whispers, utters and cries the Lord’s name at least five-and-a-half times. No fucking salvation in sight. 

That’s not all, either. Somewhere in the midst of being stuffed from both ends like a goddamn finger trap, Cricket experiences a moment of clarity. It’s all so painfully simple, really. If God gave a shit, Cricket would be spending his every waking hour satisfying Dee Reynolds, because even after all this time and everything that’s happened, he’d still die for her. She’d let him; he’s under no illusions there. But the possibilities,  _ fuck, _ the possibilities... 

If God cared, Cricket would be cooking and cleaning for her and keeping everything just so, and when she felt like it, she’d tie him up, bring him to the brink and leave him rock-hard and unsatisfied, laughing as she locks the door behind her. He’d wait, oh, he’d wait. Minutes, hours, days. She’d come back; she always does. If God gave a flying fuck, occasionally Dee would allow Cricket to taste her, and she’d throw her head back in ecstasy and press her stiletto heels into his sides as he eats her pussy as though it’s his last fucking meal on earth. And if God gave so much as a rat’s hairy ass, Matthew “Rickety Cricket” Mara would be licking the dirt from Dee’s boots as she told him what a rotten piece of shit he is, and he’d roll over and beg her to hurt him just a little more. He’d have it no other way.

As it stands, her twin brother rawing his asshole right now is the closest he’s ever gonna get. He’ll take it; what choice does he have? He imagines it’s Sweet, Dominant Dee back there, plowing his rear using Christ knows what, her fingernails digging into his hips hard enough to bruise.  _ Fuck, _ yeah. That does it. It’s a goddamn revelation, is what it is.  _ Did they just fucking high-five? _

Fuck it. Get yours or go home.

He fully embraces his fantasy: Mac’s dick in his mouth is now a gag of Dee’s choosing, because she wouldn’t want him screaming for help, of course. He doesn’t touch himself; she wouldn’t let him. It’s not like he needs to, anyway. Each brutal thrust from behind, every slap of his ass brings him closer to his release, and when he comes, it’s Dee’s name he cries out through a mouthful of flesh.

****

Back in his usual spot by the trash cans under the bridge, as Cricket drifts off into a well-earned slumber – an empty bottle of tequila at his feet and his nose coated in fine silver paint (he’ll save the cola for breakfast) – it occurs to him that he doesn’t even remember whether Mac or Dennis came first. 

With any luck, perhaps he never will.

**Author's Note:**

> Is there any wonder Cricks has such an affinity with dogs? :)
> 
> [okimi79.tumblr.com](http://okimi79.tumblr.com)


End file.
